Page 38 of Love of the Bladed Dove (Drakaren #1)

After some time, Layla lifted her head, wiping her tears.

Her eyes drifted to Kain, now shirtless, sitting backward on a chair as the doctor stitched the arrow wounds on his back.

His muscles were taut with pain, his jaw clenched.

Despite everything, a sense of gratitude welled in Layla’s chest. He had taken those arrows for her. For her mother.

Dr. Aldren cleaned and dressed the wounds before speaking softly to Kain and leaving a bowl of herbs beside him.

Kain promptly stood and stretched, wincing as he did.

He grabbed a nearby whiskey bottle, dropped into the chair, and tilted his head back against the wall, eyes closed as he took a long swig.

Layla found herself watching him—his long torso, the lazy bun at the back of his head, the confident smirk that curled across his lips … Then he cracked an eye open.

“You like the view, Little Dove?” he teased.

Layla rolled her eyes. “Thank you… for everything,” she said instead. “Tell your Queen I am grateful your men left in peace. As of now, I do not consider us at war. That’s mainly because of you.”

Kain grinned, head still against the wall, his eyes shut once again. “You’re welcome.”

Layla studied him. Mildly confused why he didn’t move to leave. “You can rest in a bed if you want. I’ll find you one.”

“Oh? You offering to join me, Little Dove? I’d be honored.” He flashed a wicked grin, those green eyes flying open with piercing mischief as they snapped to hers .

Her cheeks flushed deep red. “No! I—just—ugh!” He chuckled, leaning his head back to rest again.

“I mean it,” she said more seriously. “You’re free to go. My men can protect my family now.” He opened his eyes, and when they met hers, they didn’t waver. The mischief was gone—replaced by something quieter, heavier. A steady intensity that bore into her.

“I’m not going anywhere. If you’re going to Bartoria, I’m going with you.” Layla’s composure cracked slightly. The swell of emotion in her chest was impossible to ignore.

“…Okay,” she whispered.

“Okay,” he echoed, a flicker of contentment settling across his face. He took another swig, then leaned back slowly, letting his head rest as she watched sleep soon begin to pull him under.

They waited in comfortable silence until a soft knock came. Kain raised an eyebrow, but Layla motioned that she would handle it. She opened the door to a familiar face.

“Marilla,” Layla breathed, throwing her arms around her handmaiden. “You’re safe!”

“And you!... Gods above, you need a bath,” Marilla said with a watery laugh, her voice cracking despite the teasing.

She quickly wiped a tear from her cheek, trying—and failing—to collect herself.

“Most of us were in the city for the festivities,” she added, her tone softening.

“I suppose… the gods had a hand in that.” She offered the explanation be fore Layla could even ask, as if trying to fill the silence with anything but tears.

Layla nodded, dazed. The words sank in slowly, but the relief was instant and all-consuming. She drew in a shaky breath, blinking hard—willing herself not to fall apart now, not when the dearest friend she feared lost was standing right in front of her. Safe. Alive.

“I brought you a gown. Go use your mother’s tub.

I’ll sit with her.” Marilla’s voice was brisk, familiar—already slipping back into business as usual like she hadn’t just been blinking back tears.

Composed, capable, unshakable. It made Layla chuckle.

Of course Marilla would be the one to think of a bath and fresh clothes when the world had nearly ended. Gods, she was so happy she was okay.

But then Marilla’s posture stiffened, her eyes catching on something just past Layla’s shoulder. Kain. She said nothing, but the tension was unmistakable.

Layla stepped in quickly, her voice low but steady. “He helped me. Helped the Queen. He’s not the enemy, Marilla.”

Marilla gave a reluctant nod before cautiously passing by Kain to sit beside the queen.

Layla didn’t doubt Kain’s loyalty—not after today—but Marilla was different.

Familiar. Gentle. The queen wouldn’t startle awake at the sight of her.

Kain, on the other hand… Layla nearly laughed at the image, then exhaled a quiet sigh of relief and slipped into the bathing chamber.

She shed her leathers with aching efficiency, the fabric peeling away like a second skin. Turning to the mirror, she took herself in—bruised, bloodstained, too thin. A body carved by war, not court. Her fingers brushed a cut on her collarbone, her reflection both foreign and familiar .

Princess by blood. Warrior by fire. And now, undeniably both.

Layla bathed quickly, scrubbing herself raw as she used her mother’s oils—lavender and vanilla. She couldn’t help but smile because they smelled like home. The gown Marilla brought was sage green, soft and flowing with an open neckline. It didn’t feel like armor, but somehow, it gave her strength.

She stepped out, hair still damp, but Marilla didn’t dally and took her leave. Reassuring she would be back often to check on both her and the queen.

Layla offered a quiet, sincere thanks before returning to her mother’s side. She took her hand gently, eyes searching her face.

“Please wake up,” she whispered.

“So, this is the Princess of Graystonia. I see it now.” Kain teased from across the room. More awake now than before. Layla rolled her eyes at him.

“Don’t get me wrong. You looked great in the whole warrior woman thing and this… thing.” He waved his hand at her attire, “But my favorite so far is the little white dress.” He winked at her with that taunting smirk. Layla just glared back at him. Asshole.

Shut up, Kain,” Layla muttered, then straightened her tone. “If you’d like, you’re welcome to use the washroom while we wait.” It was a clumsy attempt to change the subject, and they both knew it. But thankfully, Kain stood and stretched with lazy ease anyways.

“I’ll be quick, try not to get into too much trouble while I’m in there.” Kain didn’t even look at her before shutting the washroom door. Layla just shook her head in frustration at him .

Before her mind could begin to wander once again, a knock at the door caused her to start to stand. Sir Edwin again, she assumed. But just as she turned away from her mother, gently removing her hand, the tips of her fingers were squeezed and Layla’s entire body went rigid with shock.

"Mother!" Layla's voice cracked, breathless with joy. “You’re awake!” Queen Raynera’s eyes fluttered open, unfocused at first, her face pale and worn. She blinked slowly, confusion giving way to recognition.

“Layla?” she rasped, her voice barely audible. “You’re alive… Thank the gods.” Her gaze softened for just a moment before her lids fluttered shut again from the weight of exhaustion.

Layla grasped her mother’s hand tighter, the warmth of it anchoring her in the chaos of everything she’d endured.

“I’m here, Mother. We’ve taken the castle back.

You’re safe now.” But the words faltered on her tongue slightly as she took in her mother’s injuries again—how broken she looked lying there, beaten, pale, so unlike the woman who had ruled at her father’s side with iron resolve.

The woman who had taught her that tears were wasted energy, that emotion was for the behind closed doors.

“You were hurt badly…” Layla’s voice dropped to a whisper, ashamed she couldn't say it outright. Ashamed that she hadn’t been there in time to stop it.

Queen Raynera’s fingers twitched in Layla’s hand, her brow furrowed slightly.

“I know,” she whispered. “But I’m alive…

I’ll heal.” Her eyes opened once more, glassy and tired, and fixed on her daughter’s with sudden intensity.

“Ciana? Aerilynn?” urgency piercing the weakness in her voice.

The question stabbed through Layla like a dagger.

Her throat ti ghtened. She looked away for the briefest moment, forcing herself to hold it together. When she looked back, her voice shook.

“They were taken, Mother. Bartorian soldiers, before we got here. I’m so sorry…

But I swear to you, I’m going after them.

I will bring them back.” Raynera’s jaw tensed, her eyes closing briefly in pain, more emotional than physical.

Then she pushed against the bed, trying to sit up.

“No,” Layla said firmly, placing her hands on her mother’s shoulders.

“Please. You’re too hurt. You need to rest. Let me do this for you. For them.”

Raynera’s breath caught in her chest, but she stopped fighting.

Her eyes met Layla’s again, fierce despite the exhaustion in them.

For a heartbeat, Layla saw her mother, the warrior behind the crown, the strategist who’d stood beside her father as his right hand.

The woman who had never told her she was proud, but had always expected her to be worthy of pride.

“I see your father in you,” Raynera murmured. “So skilled. So brave. And stubborn, gods help us.”” Her lips curved in the faintest hint of a smile.

A sob choked in Layla’s throat as tears streamed freely down her cheeks. “I’ll bring them back,” she vowed again, the words raw and sacred. “Whatever it takes. I’ll bring them back to you.”

A soft knock echoed at the chamber door.

Layla knew what it meant— it was time. She leaned forward, brushing her lips against her mother’s temple.

“I love you,” she whispered. The words were fragile, spoken from the deepest part of her.

Words she had always wanted to say—and hear—but had learned not to expect.

Queen Raynera didn’t say it back. She never had.

But her hand squeezed Layla’s once more, stronger this time, and her eyes—though tired—held an unspoken truth: I love you too.

I’m proud of you. Then, with a final look, she gave a slight nod and let her eyes close again, surrendering to sleep.

Layla rose slowly, wiping her tears with the back of her hand.

The warrior in her hardened once more. She crossed the room with steady strides just as Kain emerged from the washroom, steam trailing behind him like mist from battle.

His damp hair hung limp around his face, briefly touching his collarbones.

His pants hung low on his hips as he padded barefoot across the stone floor.

He made no comment, offered no smirk, just grabbed for the door with quiet purpose.

Clearly pretending he hadn’t overheard anything, she was grateful for it.

He opened the door, posture relaxed but alert, and Sir Edwin stood waiting on the other side.

“Is it time?” Layla asked, her voice low but ready.

“Not yet, My Lady,” Sir Edwin replied, shifting awkwardly.

“There are… Antonin warriors at the front gate requesting an audience with you. We’ve disarmed them and held position, but we weren’t sure how you’d want to proceed, especially with, uh…

” His eyes flicked briefly to Kain, clearly unsure what lines were being drawn anymore.

Layla’s brow furrowed. Antonin warriors?

Here? Her gaze cut to Kain, but he only gave a shrug, equally in the dark.

“I’ll handle it,” she said, her voice firm with command. “Thank you, Sir Edwin. And please alert me the moment your men are prepared to ride for Bartoria.”

Sir Edwin gave a sharp bow. “Of course, My Lady.” Then he turned and strode off, armor clinking softly with each step .

Without a word, Kain gathered his leather armor and bloodied shirt, his fingers moving with practiced ease as he pulled them on over his bare chest, wincing slightly.

One by one, he slung each piece into place—his bow over his shoulder, the soft thump of the arrow satchel settling at his back. Ready.

They exited the chamber together, their steps synchronized in silent understanding.

Down the grand hall they moved, past shattered vases and blood-streaked marble, and out through the towering front doors of the castle.

Beyond the gate, three Antonin warriors stood waiting, their armor dulled by travel and bloodshed.

They kept their distance, clearly respecting the boundary laid before them.

But Layla’s breath caught in her chest as her eyes locked on the tall silhouette in the center.

Even through the distance, she knew. It was Theron.